Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Abigail desires me, but part of her also fears me.
I’ve never wanted her more than I do in this moment. My blood runs hot in my veins, and my cock stiffens at the thought of claiming her while she looks up at me with that intoxicating mix of trepidation and longing.
The thief moans when I drop the hundred-dollar bills on his shaking body. I barely notice him anymore. As I turn on my heel and stride out of the dank alley, all I can think about is Abigail.
She wouldn’t let me buy her paintings. My grand gesture was completely ruined by her stubborn will. I’m still irritated, but now that I’ve purged the vicious feelings that’d overtaken me, I’m more fascinated than ever.
Clearly, she needs the money. But she wouldn’t accept my help.
Out of pride? Or something deeper?
I recall the way her shoulders straightened as she stared me down like a defiant queen. That woman wasn’t the same person as the cheerful barista who shyly greets me at the café every morning.
I’m more determined than ever to win her over so that I can learn all of her secrets.
8
ABBY
Ismooth my dress, ensuring that it’s wrinkle-free. I’m wearing one of my only designer outfits—a gem of a find from an upscale consignment shop off King Street. The silky, royal blue material skims my modest curves, and the high halter-neck design is demure enough to make the garment classy despite the thigh-high slit at the left side. The dress dips into a low V at the back, and the warm evening air caresses my bare skin.
I hesitate just inside the entrance to The Magnolia, the boutique hotel with a rooftop bar where I was supposed to meet Dane eight minutes ago.
This might be a mistake. Now that I’m faced with the reality of this meeting, I’m wracked with uncertainty. Dane is a customer, and I’ll have to see him at the café even if this goes badly. I’m still troubled by the fact that I’ve spent hours fantasizing about a dark villain that wears his handsome face. He proved through his actions at the market that he’s truly a white knight, and as much as I crave that version of him, I can’t let go of my shameful imaginings. I’m not sure if I want him to rescue me or to ravage me.
My fingers tighten around my small black clutch as I struggle to master my rising anxiety. I only have a single twenty-dollar bill and a wad of ones inside the bag—just enough to cover two cocktails. If I choose to go up to the bar and see this through, I won’t be able to rely on alcohol to soothe my nerves; I can’t afford it.
Dane is waiting. I should’ve ridden the golden elevator up to the rooftop already, but I can’t stop staring at the art that fills the hotel entry hall. This space has been set up as a small gallery featuring work by local artists. I love it here, and a stroll down the corridor always calms me. Even if I will never be talented enough to have my landscapes included in the collection.
A pang twinges my gut—something between envy and longing—as I stare at the abstract expressionist piece that dominates the wall beside the elevator. It’s a breathtaking study in various shades of red: fiery rage, sultry seduction, and the blush of innocence corrupted. It evokes the full spectrum of passion, and I allow myself to become absorbed by the beauty of the painting to distract myself from my mounting anxiety.
The elevator dings, the sound jolting me out of my reverie like a reverberating gong. I startle, and the golden doors slide apart to reveal Dane.
He’s stunning in a sharply fitted black jacket paired with dark wash jeans. His crisp white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the tiniest peek at masculine chest hair.
My gaze snaps from that little hollow between his collarbones to his wrist as he tugs back his sleeve to check his Rolex. He quirks a dark brow at me, and his expression is enigmatic for a heartbeat while he fixes me in a steady green stare.
I shift my weight on my strappy, black high heels, and my cheeks flush a shade of pink that matches a swatch on the painting beside him.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, embarrassment softening my tone.
I hate being late. My mother is perpetually tardy, and the remembered shame of entering every social function over half an hour late heats my face. I never want to be like her.
Dane’s dazzling smile hits me square in the chest. “It’s my fault,” he assures me in that delicious English accent. “I should’ve waited down here to meet you. I’ll escort you upstairs.”
He offers his arm like some sort of gentleman out of Regency England. I stare at it for a moment, taken aback by the formal gesture.